The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [54]
Once she was gone, Madame Lecœur observed cagily “I could swear the Norman said something surly. That's the way she is. She would be wise not to talk about cousins falling from the sky, she who once found a baby in her fish shop.”
The three looked at one another and laughed. Then, once Madame Lecœur left, La Sarriette said, “My aunt is foolish to be so preoccupied with all these stories. That's what's making her so skinny. She used to beat me if a man looked at me. One thing is sure, though, there won't be some little brat turning up under her bolster, not my aunt.”
This gave Mademoiselle Saget another chuckle. And once she was by herself, as she went back to rue Pirouette, she thought how those “three floozies” were not worth the rope to hang them. Besides, someone could easily have seen them, and it would not be good to get on the wrong side of the Quenu-Gradelles, who were, after all, affluent and respected people. She made a detour to rue de Turbigo, to the Taboureau boulangerie, the most beautiful bakery in the neighborhood. Madame Taboureau was a close friend of Lisa and an authority beyond question on all subjects. When you said, “Madame Taboureau said so” or “according to Madame Taboureau,” there was nothing more to be said on the subject. Today, the elderly spinster Saget, on the pretext of wanting to know when the oven would be heated so that she could bring in her dish of pears, sang the praises of Lisa and especially her excellent boudin. Then, content that she had established this moral alibi and pleased that she had fanned the flames of a quarrel that was erupting while positioning herself above the fray she returned home with peace of mind, except that she still could not quite place where she had seen Madame Quenu's cousin.
That same day, in the evening after dinner, Florent decided to go for a walk along some of the covered streets of Les Halles. A fine mist was rising, and the empty pavilions were a mournful gray, studded with the yellow teardrops of gas flames. For the first time Florent felt out of place. He recognized the inept way in which he, a thin and artless man, had fallen into a world of fat people. He realized that his presence was disturbing the entire neighborhood and that he was a problem for Quenu, as a counterfeit cousin with a dubious look. He was saddened by these thoughts, not that he had noticed the slightest coldness on the part of his brother and Lisa. It was their kindness that upset him, and he found himself guilty of insensitivity and putting himself up in their home. Self-doubt started to overtake him. Recalling the conversation in the shop that afternoon gave him a vague feeling of uneasiness. As his mind was invaded by a memory of the scent of meat at Lisa's counter, he felt himself sliding into a spineless lack of resolve. Maybe he had been wrong to refuse the position of inspector that had been offered. This thought provoked an internal struggle, and he had to shake himself to rediscover the resolve of his conscience. A damp breeze was coming up, and it blew through the covered passages. By the time he was forced to button up his coat, he had regained his calm and his conviction. It was as though the smell of fat from the charcuterie, which had weakened him, was now blown away by the wind.
He was going back home when he ran into Claude Lantier. The painter, concealed in the folds of his green coat, had an angry, muffled voice. He was in a fury against painting, declaring it a dog's trade, and swore that he would never again in his life pick up a brush. That afternoon he had kicked his foot through a study he had been working on, of the head of that tramp Cadine.
Claude was prone to such fits caused by his inability to produce the kind of durable, living work of which he dreamed. At such times nothing existed for him any longer, and he would wander the streets seeing only darkness and waiting for the next day's resurrection. Usually he said that he felt bright and cheerful in the morning and horribly depressed in the